


His Fault

by AxleaBee



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Character Study, Drinking, Grief/Mourning, Hatred, Self-Hatred, Unforgivable Curses (Harry Potter), Violence, mentions of azkaban
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-05
Updated: 2017-01-05
Packaged: 2018-09-14 21:41:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,006
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9204539
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AxleaBee/pseuds/AxleaBee
Summary: He had no other choice. No other option. He won't allow her to die in vain.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Let me know what you think! B x

Eyes travelled over the thin face with open dislike; the boy was sleeping fitfully. Mumbles passed his trembling lips and tears squeezed past his tightly closed lids, bitten and bleeding fingers reached out desperately, they knocked his elbow and he batted them away impatiently. Panicked blues shot open and the boy sat up, trapped in a dream and shuffled away from the shadowy figure by his bedside, huddled into the corner and whimpering when the shadow’s icy, bony fingers grasped him, dragging him back into the bed, soft and warm, the room was dimly lit but he could just make out the lilac wallpaper and the comforting scent of jasmine as his nerves settled. The man forced him to lie down once more and told him to be quiet, a small nervous knock and the high-pitched squeak of the house-elf took his father away with a fierce scowl; when he returned his eyes were blank, face white and lips drawn, his hands were trembling. He sank slowly into the hard wooden chair he had avoided before; Barty remained silent, his father didn’t like him speaking at the best of times. 

“Your mother is dead.” He said shortly, his son’s eyes rapidly re-filled despite his hatred for showing weakness. His mother. Dead. The boy’s hands had begun shaking once more and he gripped the blanket, teeth biting hard into his bottom lip as tears overspilled and dribbled down his pale cheeks; Crouch watched him with disgust, Barty had drawn his knees up now and wrapped an arm around them, the other hand was gripping his thick blonde locks, a small sob broke the silence and he felt rage bubble and boil over. How dare he behave this way; it was all his fault! His precious wife, gone. Surrounded by those demons just as he should have been. _It. Should. Be. Him._ He snatched a biting grip of the boy’s bicep and shook him roughly, snarling words dripping in poison, spewing out his vitriol, every bitter and resenting thought that has crossed his mind in the last 20 years. Surprisingly the words hit and the thin body flinches sharply with every spiteful syallable and hiss; foolishly he raises his head, cornflower blue eyes, so like his mother’s, are still spilling tears and he whispers “Father.” 

A flash of flesh and a harsh snap, he’s flung onto the mattress, the springs squealing in protest; he hadn’t yelled, just sucked in a heavy breath and raised his shaking fingers to the injury, Crouch stared for a moment at his son, at his knuckles where the other’s blood was shining, and struck again. He wasn’t sure what he was looking for, an apology? Anger? Perhaps just a sound would have sufficed; but Barty remained stubbornly silent, taking the beating with a weary acceptance, maybe he did acknowledge that all of this, everything, had been his fault. It seemed unlikely. The silence was his defiance, Crouch was sure of it, it was either his defiance or his _master_ had done a more effective job of punishment, done a better job than him _again_ ; fury resurged after it had ebbed and his fist flew, small hands grasped his elbow and suddenly he was stood in his bedroom, breathing heavily and Winky was urging him into a chair; he summoned a bottle and a glass as the elf left to attend to _that_. 

Low voices and creaking floorboards broke into his drunken stupor and he jerked upright in the chair. “Master Barty you mustn’t!” Winky was crying in a whisper, the drag of zip caught his attention and he pulled himself unsteadily onto his feet, wobbling to his bedroom door as a low command was issued “Winky! Go away! I will do as I please!” Crouch patted his pocket, assuring himself that his wand was still there before opening his door; face black with anger. He dismissed the elf with a wave of his hand and a glare, his son’s expression was flickering between rebellion, desperation and the smallest amount of fear; the bruises and cuts were still covered with healing paste. “Go back to bed” He told him quietly, voice on a dangerous edge, Barty glanced at the stairs and then back at him “Now.” he had gained a sharpened tone; his wand jumped into his hand as the boy deliberately placed his foot on the first stair, his mind sped through assorted spells but his mouth hissed in cold fury “ _Imperio_ ” Barty froze. “Turn around and go back to bed.” His son turned, his eyes were dreamy and blank, his bedroom door closed behind him and Crouch remained in the hallway, he had to do that, he had to use an unforgiveable. Barty would have left and then his mother would have died for nothing. He gritted his teeth, and cast a locking charm on the boy’s door; he will not allow her to have suffered in vain. 

The next morning dawned bright, everything was shiny and clean after the heavy spring rain. Crouch looked in on his son, he was in bed but his blank eyes were staring at the ceiling, he muttered for him to sleep, evidently the curse was still in place as he did so instantly; ordering Winky to keep him quiet and out of sight he left for work. 

The workday was filled with condolences and sympathetic glances. Crouch hates it. Hates the whispers and the small smiles, pats on the arm and insistence that he could return home if he liked. Finishing later than everyone else but early for himself, his step was wobbly, he indulged once the office had emptied, he had concealed a re-filling bottle of Odgen’s in his desk when he started but hadn’t touched it before now. Wren’s death was laying heavy, he stopped by her empty grave on the way home, laid a hand on the gravestone and tried to will himself to tears; none came, his soul felt empty. 

This was all the boy’s fault. 

**It was all his fault.**


End file.
